Branded
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Lost in the wake of a painful blow, it is sometimes through the simplest gestures that we begin to find our way back.


It's a cold February day when the stage comes for him. The new commanding officer has been instated for three days.

It's time for him to move on.

Looking back at everything he's loved and defended these past four years, he feels the bittersweet taste of nostalgia rise in his throat. The guard tower will always loom in his memory. All of the troopers, apprehension and sadness in their eyes, are here to see him off. He's strangely touched, and he knows he will carry that last image of them all with him to his grave, in a golden frame somewhere in the deepest confines of his heart. He can still feel each one's handshake, hear each voice crisply in his head.

He shouldn't think the memories will fade.

He's just stepped onto the stage when Sergeant O'Rourke comes forward. Before he can stop it a sigh leaves his mouth. He knows that the sergeant and Corporal Agarn are taking this the hardest. They were the driving force behind trying to get him to stay.

But this time O'Rourke isn't here to make a request for himself, or even on behalf of the troop.

"Captain," he says, his voice eerily quiet, "there's…someone who needs to say goodbye to you."

She steps forward from behind the sergeant, boots and buckskins and wind-tossed blonde hair—she's been out riding.

"Oh, Janey." He springs down from the stage, and for once it doesn't become a clumsy pratfall—it's as smooth as strained milk. He envelopes her in one final embrace, and this time she doesn't go in for a kiss. Her lips just seem to burn with questions.

"Why, Wilton? Why?"

He knows no matter how tender he makes his voice it can't buffer his words.

"It just wasn't meant to be."

They say nothing more for the next moment, content in their silence. But then the stage driver begins to cluck his tongue impatiently, and Wilton has to break away. He pulls himself back onto the stage, closing the door behind him, blowing her a kiss as the horses take off.

When there's nothing left but a cloud of dust, she whispers her parting words to him, only hoping by some miracle he can hear them.

"Good luck. I love you."

###

Following the captain's departure, most members of the assembled populous leave the spot. They don't want to remember the scene too well, and staying there will only imprint it all more, like hot water does to blood stains on a cloth.

But two of the people stay put, gazing off into the distance at the place where the dot of the distant stagecoach disappeared long ago, unable to tear themselves away, simply remaining to feed off of their combined strength as they remember.

When one speaks, it catches the other off-guard.

"Why did you do it, O'Rourke?"

It takes him a moment to process the question. He holds back a sigh as he puts an arm around her shoulders.

"What's that, Wrangler?"

She looks up at him, just the slightest bit tremulous.

"You…you tried so hard to get him to stay. Usually there's something in it for you. But this time…" She leans up against him, and he can tell that she's fighting tears.

He lets the suppressed sigh escape his lips. It's oddly ironic, how well she knows him in that respect and yet nothing about O'Rourke Enterprises. For a long while he's silent. But finally, an answer comes to his lips.

"I just don't like seeing you get hurt, honey."

For once it's the truth—this time, it was her he was fighting for, not O'Rourke Enterprises.

They had to figure at some point their luck would run out, and he wonders if perhaps that was why he did it—because, deep inside, he knows her heart would be more broken by the captain's departure than the Enterprises could ever be. He can always break in another commanding officer—he's certainly done it enough in his time—but to Jane there's one, and only one.

Of course this would be the time his wheedling would fail. He's escaped being charged with treason or stripped of his rank, if not hanged or shot at dawn, but the instance where he acknowledges that a girl's fragile heart is at stake and acts accordingly is the one time he doesn't come through.

It shreds him to see her in such distress; what's worse is that there's nothing he can do to ease her pain.

They've always shared a certain camaraderie, always been there for each other when the going got bad. It isn't always apparent to an onlooker, but those closest to them know the truth—when it comes down to it, he'd go to the ends of the earth to see her happy, and in her special way she softens the blows he deals to the world.

He's her rock, and she's the chink in his armor.

###

The sun's still rising in a kaleidoscopic swirl of pink and orange and yellow when she tears away from his side, forcing herself to stand on her own, as much as her face says she doesn't want to.

"I'm not opening up the trading post today. I'm just going to…go to bed."

He turns to her, reaching out a hand to put on her shoulder, then quickly retracting it.

"It's been a hard day, Janey. Let me buy you a drink first."

She consents with a forced, halfhearted nod and lets him lead her away from the sunrise and even further away from the captain into the abandoned saloon—it's too early even for the town drunk. He sits her down at a table in the corner, not even bothering to ask what she wants.

"Pete," he calls to the bartender, "a shot of whiskey for the lady."

He receives an odd look in return but the barkeeper says nothing as he goes for the bottle.

She never drinks, and he knows it, but he's not worried—after all, the whiskey's watered down. Besides, she needs something to warm her when it's so cold outside.

And to numb the pain.

The shot arrives and she takes it in her hand nonchalantly. Too quickly for him to stop her, she thrusts the drink up to her lips, attempting to take it in a single go like she's watched the troopers do countless times. He can almost see the liquid scorch her throat as she gags, doubling over as the unexpected burn settles, sending her into a mad state of coughing. He strikes her back several times and she shakily gazes up at him with watery eyes, shivering so much he fears she may drop the glass. He takes it from her and sets it on the table while she shrinks back in her chair, almost as if to escape it.

Her eyes start wandering, seeming to drink up every detail of the saloon, and when at long last they come back to him, they're glistening from something other than her unpleasant encounter with the spirit occupying her glass.

"O'Rourke," she asks tearily, "does it _ever _stop hurting?"

For a moment he thinks it's a reference to the whiskey, but in an instant he realizes what she's getting at. He sighs again. Matters of the heart have never been his strong suit. He hides the smile of irony that threatens to twist his face. He's always been able to cover up moonshining and other illicit activity with his quick smooth talk, but when it comes to something like heartbreak, he's weirdly clueless, even though he's had his heart trampled over by countless wild fillies.

But she has no mother, no older sister or aunt to explain these things to her—even her father's gone now.

She's coming to him at a critical moment and she needs an answer.

Who else is left to give her one?

So he bites the bullet..

"You…you know how they brand cattle, Janey? That's what the captain's doing, in a way. He's making his brand on your heart. That's where the ache comes from. It takes a long time, and it has its share of pain. But one day you'll realize that thinking of him doesn't hurt anymore, and that's when you know he's done—he's left his mark on your heart, and as long as it's there you'll never forget him."

When she makes no move to respond, he takes her hands in his.

"Take your time, Wrangler. No one's expecting you to heal overnight. But someday, the branding'll be over, and it won't hurt to look back. Bear that in mind. Every tear you cry over him now is one step closer to that day when the ache stops."

He meets her hollow eyes. "Let it out, Janey girl. If you keep it inside, you just make it worse for yourself. You're not the first person with a broken heart—you won't be the last. People understand that."

She gives him just the faintest nod of her head and her eyes drop to the floor, as if attempting to register what he's said.

"You ever get your heart broken, O'Rourke?"

"More times than I can count, Janey."

"Then…" she falters, "the second or third time around…is it nearly as bad?"

He lets out a long breath, trying to process raw feeling into words. At long last, he replies.

"I don't think it ever gets any easier. But as time goes on, you learn how to weather the storm, because eventually you figure out that your heart'll always get put back together, someway, somehow, even if ends up crooked."

She stares at him, doe eyed and sad, but no words come.

He lifts the glass from the table and holds it up to her lips, siphoning the rest of the whiskey into her mouth. She doesn't protest.

"Easy does it, Wrangler. Now you just finish that like a good girl and I'll take you home so you can curl up in bed. Things'll look better in the morning."

She obediently drains the glass, then slowly pulls herself to her feet. He, too, rises.

"Ready?"

She offers a slight nod and together they leave the saloon, her slowly taking the lead towards the trading post while he follows. Somehow—though it takes a painfully long time—they end up its the porch, and for a while they just stare at each other in eerie silence. Eventually, she cautiously breaks it by cracking open the creaking door, though she doesn't take her eyes off him for a moment.

He backs off, wishing there were something more he could do for her, but at the same time willing to take the hint that she's clearly sending him.

"Well, I guess I oughta be makin' my way back to the fort, Wrangler." He turns and starts to descend the two wooden steps, but her voice stops him in his tracks.

"O'Rourke, could you…tuck me in?"

He brings his head back around to look at her, then bows his it in agreement.

He follows her through the door and up the stairs to her quarters. Thrusting open her bedroom door, she makes a beeline for the bed and without even bothering to remove her boots collapses onto the mattress. Her covers are still pushed forward from when she rose this morning and he draws them up to her chin and pulls them around her, remembering the feel of his mother's strong yet gentle hands on his own blankets.

As he finishes, she gazes up at him with despondent eyes.

"I don't think the branding will be over for a long, long time."

He takes a seat on the side of the bed and gently places a hand on her cheek.

"Just take it a day at a time, Wrangler. Remember, everyone in F Troop is here for you."

She gives him a numb nod and slides further underneath her covers as her eyes close.

Rising, he pulls the window's frilled curtains closed. He starts to head for the door, but something holds him back.

He slowly turns back around to look at her form, a picture of beauty and peace in the darkened room. Her appearance almost seems to be a guard against the turmoil he knows she must be feeling inside.

It won't be easy for her—that he knows. But he swears to himself that he will be there, her pillar, her rock. He'll see her through.

And she will make it. She's a survivor. Every man, woman, and child in Fort Courage knows it. Somehow she will endure. They don't know how, but she will.

He'll make sure of it.

Without thinking he leans down and places a quiet kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep tight, Wrangler."


End file.
